


To the Berry Bushes

by velvetcadence



Series: Bleat [1]
Category: X-Men: First Class (2011) - Fandom
Genre: Charles Is a Big Dorkface, Courtship, Erik has Feelings, Fauns & Satyrs, Implied Lactation, Implied Mpreg, M/M, Mating Cycles/In Heat, Plot What Plot/Porn Without Plot, Porn, Warm and Fuzzy Feelings, Watersports
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-03-17
Updated: 2014-03-17
Packaged: 2018-01-16 01:47:42
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,809
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/1327267
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/velvetcadence/pseuds/velvetcadence
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>"There's something fascinating about Charles this season."</p><p>In which satyr!Erik has been patiently courting Charles and this spring just might be <i>the</i> spring.</p>
            </blockquote>





	To the Berry Bushes

**Author's Note:**

  * For [GQD](https://archiveofourown.org/users/GQD/gifts).
  * Translation into 中文 available: [[授权翻译]To the Berry Bushes 浆果树丛里的情事](https://archiveofourown.org/works/3599511) by [Shame_i_translate](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Shame_i_translate/pseuds/Shame_i_translate)



> For Garnetquyen, you wonderful little ball of sunshine and pervy. Inspired by your [gorgeous art](http://garnetquyen.tumblr.com/post/74315846719/takhesiz-said-how-the-satyrs-will-hunt-their).
> 
> Thank you to Percy for the title help! Now with a [remix by Red](http://archiveofourown.org/works/1588532) which is a perfect companion fic in Charles' POV.
> 
> I've interpreted satyrs as male from the waist down and fauns as female from the waist down. Heed the warnings, guys. Goats are kinky as fuck.

There’s something fascinating about Charles this season.

Erik can’t stop looking at the new growth of hair on his chin, or the new strength he’s gained in his arms. Charles had been appallingly pretty as a kid; even Erik had been aware of how nice he was to look at and how admired he was in his herd. Now as a fully grown faun, he’s devastating. His beard looks soft to touch, glinting red in the sunlight.

“Good day, Charles,” Erik greets, offering a flower he had plucked on the way to their meeting place.

“Oh! How wonderful,” Charles flushes, accepting the gift. “And hello to you too, my friend.”

True to self, Charles doesn’t know how lovely he’s grown. He acts like the same old faun Erik has played with since they were little, still luminous with the same old enthusiasm and curiosity. It’s not  such a stretch to think he’ll make a wonderful father. In his herd, Charles is the one the kids flock to when they want to learn and play. Erik hasn’t seen Charles hold a newborn, but just imagining makes his skin feel tight with want—Charles’ chest would be engorged with milk, and his teat would drip with his fertility. He’d smell doubtlessly like Erik.

It would be so easy tackle the faun to the ground and claim him as mate. Erik is taller by a head as most satyrs are, and the height difference would most certainly be his advantage. With spring in his blood Erik could get carried away, however, and hurting Charles over a rut isn’t worth anything. He doesn’t want to be that kind of satyr.

So instead, he offers to carry the faun’s basket as they search for berries. Charles has dressed himself in a lovely red scarf of his own making. The color looks striking against his skin, and Erik takes the time to compliment him on it.

“Thank you, Erik,” Charles says, his cheeks and nose taking on a rosy tint even as he continues smiling. The walk becomes quiet after that, filled with birdsong and the sound of their steps upon the green.

“Wait.”

“What is it?”

Erik scents the air, his lips turning down into a frown. He can smell the frenzy of a mating couple just a stone’s throw away. “Let’s go this way instead—” He’s interrupted by the loud, desperate bleat of the faun in the deep of the wood. Charles nods and hastily leads them to another direction.

When they’ve made it far enough that they can’t hear the grunts of the satyr, they glance at each other and burst into laughter.

“Come on,” Charles prods. “Berries won’t pick themselves.”

The new path they’ve chosen is winding, but neither of them seem to mind. When Charles stumbles over a root, Erik is there to catch him. The satyr slides his grip from Charles’ elbow to his wrist, hesitantly touching his fingers to the faun’s palm. Charles’ eyes slide up to his, wide and beguiling. He looks away quickly, but his finger’s catch upon Erik’s, twining them together.

They had held hands often enough as young ones, but ever since Erik had asked for permission to court him, Charles had become shy of him in front of the others. With no prying eyes, Charles’s grip is sure and warm.

When they find the berries, Charles reaches out to pick a fruit, staining his lips red. Erik watches him swallow, his eyes riveted to the strain of the muscles in the faun’s neck.

“Erik? Is something wrong?”

The satyr clenches his jaw, finally looking away. “It’s nothing.”

He turns away to pick at another berry bush, clawing his way back to self-control. Erik wants nothing more than to grab the faun by the waist and carry him off on his shoulder, but he had remembered being overcome last spring and doing just that. Oh, how Charles had been frightened of him! _His_ Charles!

He supposes they’re lucky they’ve ventured through the journey unscathed. It’s spring, after all, and all the bucks and does are running wild with rut and heat.

By the time Erik has gathered half a basket and his own scattered composure, Charles has bent by the waist to get to the fruits below, his tail eagerly flicking from side to side.

The sight is too much. To a satyr, there’s nothing more incendiary than a faun with an eager tail in a prime position for mounting. It’s as if all the seasons of waiting has gathered in his blood and clouded his mind; Erik takes his cock in hand and aims at his chin. When he pisses, the scent is strong enough that Charles whirls, his breath coming fast. Erik’s upper lip curls, the grimace of a rut, displaying his strong teeth. To a human, it might look beastly, even horrendous, but to fauns, it’s one of the most attractive mating calls. Strong teeth mean a healthy satyr; a healthy satyr means good offspring.

Erik’s face is still dripping when Charles comes closer. The invitation is clear enough. If Charles likes his scent, they’ll mate. If he doesn’t, then Erik might have to leave and find some buck to cross horns with. There will be plenty enough frustrated satyrs to fight with, but leaving Charles alone to fend for himself at this time isn’t an option. Erik sincerely wishes Charles will respond positively. He’s burning with the prospect of it.

The faun is trembling when he swipes his fingers through the trail of wetness down Erik’s neck and chin, leading down to his groin. He bleats when he reaches Erik’s cock, turgid and hot in his hand. It isn’t the first prick Charles has seen, surely, though it might certainly be the first he’s ever held. The timid and careful way he’s handling Erik tells the satyr as much.

Erik has never touched a faun either. He pulls Charles closer and scents his hair, nosing into the base of his horns where he’s starting to emit a musky heat-scent. Regardless of his inexperience, he’s gentle when he presses against the swollen folds of Charles’ sex.

“Ah!” Charles cries, and warmth courses through Erik’s fingers. The satyr is pleased with the answering scent of the faun’s urine; he smells ready to mate and to claim. Charles is flushed red just like his scarf, and Erik pushes the fabric away so he can claim the skin of his neck with a nuzzle and a sucking bite.

The faun sways in his arms, dizzy from their combined scents and the inevitability of their mating. Erik guides him down, down to the lush grass and the sweet scent of the earth so that he can mark him further, drench him in his claim so that other satyrs would know that Charles belonged to him and he to Charles.

He kisses Charles when he’s done, deep, drugging kisses that turn frenzied the longer it goes on. The faun grips him by the shoulders and drags his blunt nails down his back. Erik responds by grabbing Charles by the hair and taking one of his sweet little horns in his mouth and sucking hard enough that the faun yelps a stuttered bleat.

He’s positively dripping when Erik slides a finger in again. He wonders how much wider it’ll stretch with practice. There are does that like to take whole fists just for the pleasure of it. Erik could do that, open his mate slowly, carefully, stretching him in preparation for when kids come along.

Charles bucks up when Erik curls his fingers _just so_. His horn catches the satyr’s upper lip, and to Erik’s astonishment, he can taste blood. The satyr smears this taste into a kiss as hot as molten rock, staining Charles’ mouth with it.

Charles breaks from the kiss for a deep lungful of air, and he turns within Erik’s circle of arms, onto his hands and hooves, his intent clear.

“Erik,” Charles pants, “please. Erik, please!”

The satyr makes a loud hunting cry, bracketing Charles’ arms with his own, caging him in his larger body. There’s no mistaking the faun’s state as anything but a heat. As far as Erik knows, this will be Charles’ first. What a gift, to be able to taste all the first pleasures of spring with a mate! There are fauns and satyrs that couple with humans or nymphs for variety, but Erik has heard that the most satisfying seasons are those enjoyed with true mates.

The first thing Erik notices about the first careful thrust is the heat, and the slick, velvet grip of Charles all around him. Charles moans and moans, his soft thighs parting to let Erik in deeper. Erik huffs against one floppy ear, his abdominal muscles hurting with strain. He stills when he can’t push any further, stunned and elated and altogether aware of how hot Charles is under him, how hard he’s trembling and how aroused he smells.

When the faun starts fucking himself on Erik’s cock, Erik’s teeth latch onto his nape, keeping him still as his hips start pistoning. Charles sobs from the force of it. Somehow that sound spurs Erik on faster, and he starts losing himself to his rut. There’s blood on his tongue again but it’s not his, and the vibrations of Charles’ groans are making his teeth itch and clamp down harder on skin. His hands have turned into claws where they’ve dug into the ground, and the faun underneath him sighs and tightens then loosens, supple and limber under him; Erik follows him down to the ground and continues fucking and fucking and fucking him until he bleats and comes around him twice more, and then Erik is spilling, pushing into his mate so hard he jostles him into the grass.

They stay there on the ground for an indeterminable amount of time. The grass is soft and the wind is cool, and Charles smells so very good. Erik has rolled off some time ago but the faun is quick to follow the gravity of his body, twining his lushly furred legs around Erik’s waist.

“Hello,” Charles smiles, radiant. Erik brushes his curls back from his forehead, feeling his lips lift in answer.

“Hello,” he says, hand tracing down Charles’ spine down to his tail. The faun laughs, tickled, and Erik can’t help himself. His own laughter joins Charles’, and he’s never in that moment recalled ever being so happy.

He finally manages to ask, “Are you alright?” sometime later, tracing his mate’s tender flesh with a careful finger.

“I am. Just a little sore. Oh, don’t stop. I like that.”

“Do you?” Erik raises an eyebrow, opening him up with his fingers again. Charles gasps, and Erik grins at the yellow warmth coating his hand. “Again?”

“Again,” Charles acquiesces breathlessly, pulling Erik closer.


End file.
